Like A Comet Burning Bright
by owlwayssandforever
Summary: Part of a CS writing challenge during the hiatus. Emma deals with some side effects of being the Dark One, maybe not in the best way.


_She had a need to feel the thunder_

 _To chase the lightning from the sky_

 _To watch a storm with all its wonder_

 _Raging in her lover's eyes_

* * *

Emma bangs the door of the house shut as she storms in, her mood beyond foul, though she has no real reason why. Since the darkness was banished, this happens sometimes, and it's like someone flips a switch inside her, filling the pit of her stomach with boiling rage. So today, she excuses herself from her sheriff duties early, planning to go home and work out her anger on the punching bag she has set up on their back porch while listening to some pretty aggressive rap until her knuckles are sore and her body is exhausted, at which point she figures she'll take a nice hot, steamy bath with a glass of wine. That should do wonders for her, making her feel worlds better before she has to be around people again. Her plan, however, is foiled when she walks out to the back porch only to find Killian sitting on the porch swing, feet propped up on the other end as he reads a book.

"Swan!" he exclaims, looking up from the pages in surprise. "You're home early." The tiny part of Emma that is still rational begs her to leave it, to tell him that she just needs to blow off some steam and continue on with her plan as intended, but the monster is in control now and she can't seem to walk away.

"As are you," she answers, and though her words themselves aren't inherently mean, the tone behind them is biting.

"Ah, I strained my back trying to move a box of books this afternoon, so Belle advised I go home and take it easy so as to be better by tomorrow." Emma can see now the heating pad poking out from underneath him and the cord stretching over to the outlet in the wall, and the fact that he is in pain should have been enough for her to stop herself, but she can't, and she just snorts unkindly at his mishap. "Don't be deceived by my devilishly handsome self, love, I'm much older than I look."

"Your three hundred years are starting to show, _captain_ ," she spits out, and he cocks his head to the side, eyebrows furrowing in confusion because he knows something is wrong. This is not like her at all, not least of all because he is damn sure that his two hundred and seventy years (thank you very much) aren't showing even in the slightest.

"Emma," he hesitates, wary of saying the wrong thing and provoking her further, "is something wrong?"

"Yes, you," she answers, and she starts to feel the words flowing, a cascade of unmeant feelings issuing forth from the deepest pit inside her. "Always here, just hanging about, never doing anything, not being useful."

"Emma, what am I qualified to do? I've never been anything but a naval officer or a pirate, neither of which are necessary in Storybrooke." His eyes are still cautious, the expression on his face showing a mixture of concern and confusion as he waits for her to voice her real problem (knowing that this objection is not what is making her so unreasonably angry). She just ignores his [very valid] point and barrels on, the verbal waterfall now demanding to force itself out of her.

"You think you can just sit around all the time, being all handsome and charming, and that'll just make everything alright, that just because you're good looking you can just, and your stupid tattoos," she might as well say the word in singular because her eyes flick to his bare forearm as she says it, and he absolutely catches the movement, "and just because you talk like freaking Shakespeare, I mean seriously, who does that? And you're still here, but you shouldn't be, you should have gone running for the hills by now because I'm a nightmare, except you don't. And you flirt with anything that moves like you're some kind of, of, I don't even know, but you're impossible."

"Emma," he tries to interject when she pauses to take a breath, but she just plows on past him without even taking notice.

"God, you're so freaking perfect, everyone thinks you're perfect, but you're not, you know." She starts pacing back and forth, her brain completely shut off as she spews forth words that don't even make sense, that aren't even sentences. "You're, you're… you snore when you sleep, and you're insanely neat so you make everyone else feel like a complete slob, and you're always on time, never fashionably late, and -"

"Emma. Stop." He's stern, started to get a little annoyed by her incessant babbling, his irritation compounded by the aching in his lower back. "Would you like to tell me the real problem or would you prefer to continue to spout nonsense at me?" His eyes flash warningly, but she feels like it's a challenge, and the monster inside of her rears up in triumph at having aggravated him.

"The real problem, _Hook_ , is that you're like a little puppy dog, just following me around with nothing better to do, not like a real man would. You focus all your energy on me, you have nothing else in your life. Until me, you were a grown man, still living on a boat getting drunk and having one night stands all the time, and now you cling to me like a leech."

"EMMA." He has to virtually shout to make himself heard over her, but she stops abruptly when he speaks, her eyes taking in the anger and hurt that is written plainly all over his face. He pushes himself so he is standing (with what looks to be a good deal of pain) to face her. "I'm going to go for a walk, give you some space to cool down a bit." She doesn't even respond right away, her spike of fury not fading until he is halfway down the path to the beach.

"Killian?" she calls out tentatively, not sure what response she's going to get.

"I'll be back in a bit, Swan," he answers, not even bothering to turn back around.

And that, that's the moment the shame and guilt and self-loathing begin to seep into the now-empty pit of rage, and Emma hates herself more in that moment than she thinks she ever has before.

She does take some time with the punching bag after all, but disgust with oneself doesn't dissipate the same way anger does, so when her knuckles are bruised and broken she stops, but she doesn't feel any better.

Killian gets back in time for dinner, and doesn't say anything, Henry is there after all, but he takes Emma's hand gently and smoothes his thumb over the back, his eyebrows drawing together as he takes note of the cuts and bruises on her skin. Killian and Emma are both quiet all through dinner, though he never lets go of her hand, both of them speaking only as much as needed to continue prompting Henry, although the boy is more than happy to carry the conversation, telling them every detail of his day at school and his afternoon with Regina, Robin and Roland at the park, and when he's exhausted that subject he tells them about being the Author and all the questions he has - can he come up with stories of his own to write or does he have to simply record other people's stories? - and Emma tells him that maybe he can ask August.

When dinner is over and the dishes are done, Killian heads to their bedroom while Emma checks that Henry's homework is finished and his teeth are brushed before sending him off to bed with a hug and a reminder that he can read or write or whatever for one hour and then he has to go to sleep because it's a school night after all, and then she goes to her own bedroom, ready to face whatever awaits her there. Killian sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to come in, and when she shuts the door behind her, she leans against it, eyes looking down at the floor though she can feel the heat of his gaze on her.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out, and she hears him let out a sigh, lifting her eyes so she can look at him. He looks… tired, and sad, but also relieved and not at all angry.

"Emma, I love you very much, and that doesn't change just because of a few harsh words, though I could live without them." She smiles weakly at the teasing in his voice. "But, did you mean what you said? Do you want me around less?"

"No," she answers quickly, and it's the truth, which she wants him to know, so she walks over and kneels in front of him, taking his hand in hers. "No, I don't. You belong right here, Killian, with me, and Henry, and…" but she lets that particular thought drift away, not ready to deal with the idea of _more_ just yet. She hesitates, then, "I do want you to have a job, but I want you to have one because you enjoy it, and it makes you feel good, and not because I want you to get out of the house or because I push you, and there's no rush. You'll figure it out eventually, find something that clicks, and until then, do whatever you want."

"Okay," he answers, but she can see the cogs still turning in his brain.

"This is your place, Killian, right here. Don't doubt it now just because I'm an idiot." He smiles lightly and his hook goes up to play with her hair, wrapping the curls absentmindedly around the tip.

"But… you'll tell me if you need me to, what's the phrase, back off?" he moves his hand to scratch behind his ear, but she squeezes it instead.

"What I need is you, right beside me, always. Can you do that?"

"Aye, love, I think I manage it."

"Good."

(In the end, Emma takes that hot, steamy bath as well, though she may have some company she hadn't originally planned on, but she's not complaining. His kisses peppered across her skin anywhere the muscles are tight help wash away bad feelings better than anything else possibly could.)

\- Quote from "That Summer" by Garth Brooks. -


End file.
